Mom, here it is. I’m going to address the one topic that you keep bringing up, week after week, day after day, in your most innocuous, grandchild-seeking voice. Why am I single? Why haven’t I found a yin for my yang, a Romeo for my Juliet, a chewtoy for my cynical, frowny-faced bulldog? Sure, I’m only 26, but you’re right: the mere fact that I’m not married/engaged/in a serious relationship indicates that there is something deeply wrong with me, possibly pathological, definitely egregious, and I must figure it out now or live the rest of my life alone, in a dank crawl space where every unmarried woman goes to die.
So, why haven’t I found a man with whom I’ll fall in blissful, romantic, crazy, stupid love?…
BLAME IT ON ME
I was not molested as a child. In fact, as you know, I had a rather idyllic and uneventful upbringing. But, perhaps the absence of suffering can explain why I became such an unlovable, cold-hearted adult. Instead of growing up with a natural enemy (Focus all your hate on your molester! On your parents! On that oddly-fat, muffin-topped bully!), I imposed my wrath across all walks of life. So if you stole my candy, I would spear you in the head with a pencil (sorry, Nick). If you copied off my test, I would knee you in the balls (sorry, Greg). And if you just happened to catch me on a bad day, I would tell everyone that you peed in the middle of the locker room (really, really, sorry, Nacie). So, why am I single? Well, I guess it’s because I am an irredeemable bitch.
As a child, I was never broken down or kicked in the face, even when I should have been. Thus, I emerged from adolescence with an unhealthy, enduring narcissism: I am a 10. Everyone else is a 6. And as an adult, most kindhearted 6s don’t want to deal with pretentious jerkface not-really-10s. So, Mom, if you’re wondering why I’m still single, this is one reason. When your daughter was acting like a prissy little shit, you should’ve just left her with a recently-divorced uncle and not asked too many questions.*
BLAME IT ON THE BOYS
OK, Mom, perhaps it’s not just bitchy me. Maybe the guys have something to do with it as well. I’ve never had a great track record with los hombres. It started out okay: my middle school boyfriend once gave me a heart necklace from K-Mart. But since then, I’ve been on a string of terrible “relationship experiences”. I’ve gone on first dates to awful places like Wendy’s, the New York City Bodies exhibit, and a guy’s office Halloween party where I saw three mimes and his friend in blackface. I’ve met a weirdo who only wanted to play “the Dictionary game”, which involves picking a word from the dictionary and guessing its definition. I once went on a date with a guy who strangely insisted on sticking his tongue down my ear; I lost an earring in his futon. So even if there is something wrong with me, it appears that everyone else is damaged too. Maybe the entire single male population is just a cesspool of mediocrity and creepiness. Just last month, my kind, sweet, middle school boyfriend robbed a Hollister store at gunpoint and went on the run. He’s facing armed robbery and assault charges now, but word on the street is that he’s single… yup, I’m on it.
BLAME IT ON THE ORANGE SHAG CARPET
Fine, Mom. You say that no, it can’t just be my terrible personality or an overarching “men are bad” excuse. Well, then, perhaps I’m single because I simply have bad taste. If Patti Stanger from Millionaire Matchmaker were to give her analysis, she’d say my “picker’s” off (if I were a guy, she’d also say my pecker shouldn’t be the picker). But if that’s the case, then my picker has been steered awry from the get-go. Remember our first house, with the bright orange shag carpet and the blue, plaid checkered couches? Remember how I loved wearing sweaters with poofs, neon scrunchies, and oversize, ill-fitting Orlando Magic t-shirts? I’ve had horrific, vomit-inducing taste my whole life. My picker has always been off. If my picker were a pecker, it’d be all bent and mutilated and probably diseased. So if this is really it, then maybe I’m not meant to find someone at all. Maybe I’m destined to be the orange shag carpet that will clash with everything and match with nothing. Maybe I’m Craig Sager’s suit?
I don’t know, Mom. I guess all I can say is that even though there is nobody significant in my life right now, it doesn’t mean that it won’t happen in the future. Perhaps one day I will meet a nice guy who can deliver your blessed grandchildren (because, of course, he will be a doctor too). But also know that I don’t necessarily have to be married to give you grandchildren, and constantly nagging me about getting a boyfriend may drive me into the arms of some incredibly-fertile, economically-unstable miscreant with whom I’ll have a really ugly, really stupid, four-legged heathen baby, so let’s all just take a deep breath and remember I’m still young and don’t need to be tied down right now, okay?, okay?, and yes I know that writing this was a huge waste of time that I could’ve spent on finding a boyfriend but it’s also possible that there is someone out there who, upon reading this, will say, “She’s the one!” and decide to find me, hunt down my address online, secretly follow me to learn my likes and dislikes, and then, armed with that information, sweep me off my feet so that we can live happily ever after for the rest of eternity because by then technology will be so advanced that everyone lives forever.
Hey, a girl can dream.
* No, I really don’t think I should’ve gotten molested (or that anyone should get molested) — this was just a cheap hook so that you’d keep reading. And aren’t you glad you did?!?